


Jane's Provenance

by EntrancedCat



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-10-01 20:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntrancedCat/pseuds/EntrancedCat
Summary: Jane creates a masterpiece painting and the satisfaction is not from her art.





	Jane's Provenance

**NATHAN’S SOURCING**

Nathan Rothko suppressed a shudder as the rail-thin shop girl’s white knees flashed through her torn jeans as she came out of the back room of Stationary Jerry. He concentrated on the smile of triumph framed by her raven hair with streak of red dye which she flashed him as she handed him a thick stack of papers. 

“You’re right,” The shop girl said as Nathan carefully peeled off the crumbling ancient rubber binders to inspect the sheets. “Embossing was so much fancier in them old days, if 1961 or so was the old days, I guess.”

Nathan ran his fingers along the raised images and words at the top of each stack of different sales receipts, invoices, letter papers or just plain blank note pads from various defunct art galleries, shops and museums in the greater Lawndale, Tri-County and Baltimore area. He thought he could cut himself on a few of the crisp letter heads. He resisted opening the packs to inside pages as he did not want to crack the strips of red and green glues at the top of many of the pads.

He smiled as he looked up into the shop girl’s eyes. “And the inks, doll face?”

At that moment a male voice called from the back storage area, “Hey Monique, I finally found those cases of ink, yeah, we got blue, black and red and all old enough to be made from dinosaur blood. What does zoot suit boy want?”

Monique Defarge grinned back at Nathan before yelling over her shoulder, “Great Dad. Yeah, I think he wants ‘em all.”

Nathan smiled wider and nodded in assent. His grin threatened to break his face then as a white-haired man in crisply pressed sleeve-gartered white shirt and grey trousers carried a brown cardboard box from the back room. The man set it down on a table to let Nathan inspect the contents: three yellow-aged, edge-cracked white boxes stamped in black, blue and red inks indicating provenances in the 1960’s. 

“Here you go,” the man said. “These bottles are mostly full, not much evaporation even. And we’ll throw in a handful of old fountain pens, still in decent shape and good quality but these aren’t collector’s items. You can have ‘em to just get ‘em out of our way.”

The two men shook hands wordlessly. Jerry of Stationary Jerry taped the box shut and Monique handed Nathan a plain brown paper sack with his paper goods. Nathan handed Jerry a roll of cash which Jerry accepted without counting or the exchange of a receipt. Monique went to see what kind of diary two tween girls wanted to buy as Nathan put hat on head and headed out of the store into an overcast fall day on Dega Street, Lawndale, Maryland.

**THE PRODUCT AND THE TOUCH**

THE PRODUCT

“So,” Daria asked her friend Jane as soon as Jane turned off the vacuum cleaner. “How long has it been since Casa Lane’s living room carpet had a vacuuming?”

Jane smiled and started to remove the bag. “I reckon some of this dirt is from the 1960s. Just right for our purposes, amiga, no?”

Daria nodded tightly and pressed her lips together even tighter as she watched Jane struggle to extract the flimsy paper bag from the Lane’s ancient Eureka vacuum without tearing. Jane whistled happily as it came free with only a couple puffs of dust. Jane whistled a happy, bouncy version of Mystik Spiral’s “Mr. Normal” but Daria could tell her friend was almost as on edge as she herself. She set the bag down on a side table and both teens turned to the voices suddenly coming from the Lane’s front step. 

There was an authoritative knock then Nathan opened the door and stood aside to admit Quinn Morgendorffer. Quinn was more than used to boys and men fawning over her but even she smiled a bit and even blushed slightly at Nathan’s manners. Nathan picked up a large cardboard box from the step and followed her.

“And peaches-and-cream,” Nathan continued some conversation began on their walk up from the Morgendorffer residence. “I can fit you out with real silk stockings, not this nylon crap. And snoods, babygirl, I got a source with some snoods that your flaming tresses would knock right outta the park.”

“That’s nice, eh, Nathan?” Quinn said. “But let’s concentrate on what we’re here to do first.”

“Sure thing, Quinn, and hi-ya, Jane, Daria.” Nathan set his burden down at a table which Jane waved at.

“And Bob’s your uncle. I think my job is pretty much done,” Nathan declared as he opened his box and brought out cases of inks, a bundle of fountain pens and stacks of papers.

“Jerry was happy to oblige a repeat good customer and get rid of what’s almost junk to him. He took a nice wad of dough and he and emo dame or punk-rock girl or whatever-the-hell chick ain’t gonna squeal about it to no one.”

Jane ran her hands over the contents on the table before giving Nathan a grateful smile, “Thanks Nathan, I owe you.”

“I’ll take my payment now, sweet thing.” 

Nathan swept Jane into a hug and gently bent her backwards. He cupped one hand over her rear and the other supported her back. Jane’s arms slowly came around his neck and back and they smooched. The Morgendorffer sisters shuffled their feet embarrassed and not knowing where to retreat until Nathan pulled Jane upright again and Jane straightened her lop-sided bob. 

“You don’t owe my anything, doll face,” Nathan said quietly. “Just, how’s Trent?”

Jane caught her breath and said, “Comme ci comme ça. Hanging on. He thinks hanging his head over a pan of steaming water helps but who knows? It’s harmless anyway.”

“So next couple weeks?” Nathan asked. 

“Yeah, if the specialist from Baltimore doesn’t get delayed.” Jane nodded. 

“God bless science and the specialist from Baltimore. Well, sweet things, I gotta take a powder.” Nathan said, donned his fedora and headed out the door. 

As a parting shot he added, “Oh, and tell Trent the ‘40s are forever.”

The three teen girls’ eyes flickered over the objects on the table: pens, cases of inks, vacuum cleaner bag and assorted paper slips. No one wanted to get on with the project’s next steps until a high teakettle whistle from the Lane’s kitchen broke their trances.

“Ugh,” Daria said deadpan. “I hate tea. Can’t we do this with a nice cappuccino?”

“You don’t have to drink it, Morgendorffer.” Jane went into the kitchen and returned with a pan sporting a tea bag string sticking out of the tight lid. “Those upper crust gallery owners were heavy orange pekoe drinkers so Quinn’s documents will take a few sips. Luckily Mom had some ancient tea bags from God only knows when.”

“Are you sure,” Daria asked. “We can’t get some good wampum for the old tea bags? Gotta be a collector’s market somewhere. Might be a safer way to do things.”

Daria and Quinn had re-boxed Nathan’s offerings and were debating who had to carry the dusty bag of detritus. Jane shook her head and picked it up. She led them up the stairs to her room. The three girls glanced over to the shut door of Trent’s room from which soft snores were coming. They grimaced at snorts and catches in the rhythmic sawing sounds.

“And Roberta’s your tìa,” Jane said as they entered her room cum studio and regarded the focus of the day. 

Quinn walked slowly around the easel in the center of Jane’s bedroom then took up position next to her sister a couple yards away from the canvas. As Jane joined them sans pan, Quinn went to look at the signatures scrawled on otherwise blank canvases in variations of “RM”, “Robert Motherwell” and scrawls barely recognizable as script. 

Quinn cracked her knuckles, flexed her fingers and shook out her hands before pronouncing. “I can’t hold a brush or paint worth crap. But let me at those retro pens and ink.”

As Quinn began to inspect the fountain pens and shake bottles of ink, Daria stood beside her best friend looking at her painting. They wordlessly regarded the study of black shapes on a white background. Bars of black with sharply defined borders were interspersed with crisply delineated roughly circular shapes in the same severe black. 

“The best thing I’ve ever painted,” Jane muttered.

“No, it’s not,” Daria put a hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. 

As typical Daria did not know how to console anyone but atypically she tried this time. “This isn’t yours, well, I don’t know, Jane, but you’ll do better work as your own stuff.”

THE TOUCH

“Let’s get to it,” Jane said stiffly. 

Jane approached the canvas holding the dust bag. She pointed its orifice at her work and gently squeezed sending a fine film of dust over her piece. She worked it over with dust as carefully as she had painted it pausing to tweezer off lengths of black hair. Not wanting to overdo it, Jane paused and considered which signature style to put on the back.

Jane listened to the discussion between Daria and Quinn as they chose sheets of decades old paper forms. Quinn had been unwilling to attempt painting a Motherwell signature on the back of the canvas but Quinn was already practicing the signatures and letters of long-gone gallery owners, benefactors, brokers and curators on the ancient papers. Jane smiled as she heard Quinn and Daria arguing over ‘the swoop of that ‘t’ “ and then Quinn banishing Daria from her work space. Quinn sat at Jane’s desk and sighed as she spread out yellow legal pads detailing Daria’s suggested history and ownership provenance. Quinn smoothed out a sheet of blank paper to bear the first decided on piece of correspondence, sighed again and picked up a pen primed with blue ink.

As Daria was unneeded now except for kibitzing and any light lifting she came over to regard Jane looking at her masterpiece.

“Too much swoop on the dust mote there Jane.” She said helpfully.

“Let me swoop all up on you for practice, amiga,” Jane playfully swung the dust bag Daria’s way causing Daria to cringe. 

Jane swung her eyes again over the array of signatures and near signatures scrawls. 

“I’ll do that one,” Jane pointed almost randomly wanting to get it over with. She cracked open a tube of white and selected a brush.

An hour later the girls decided they were exhausted and done for the day. 

“I’ll put the painting and Quinn’s documents in the hot attic to age for a couple hours,” Jane announced.

“Just long enough for us to get pizza. My treat.”

And after Jane checked on Trent the three teens shared a booth and slices at Pizza King.

**THE PASS OFF**

Gary put the CLOSED sign out, drew the shades and locked up tight as soon as he saw Jane Lane coming in the door. He glanced at the loosely wrapped square bundle Jane was carefully carrying and her scuffed leather briefcase slung over one shoulder. 

“Jane Lane, my best former art supplier and Lawndale’s greatest pastiche painter!”

“Gary Lang of Gary’s Gallery,” Jane smirked and she hoped it was not a nervous one. “Lawndale’s answer to Knoedler. Supplying art to snooty and cheap upper middle class art poseurs for what? Five years now.”

The two laughed nervously at their lame greetings and Gary ushered her into his spacious back office.

“Wow, just wow,” Gary enthused sincerely as he stroked his chin and looked at the piece perched on an easel. “An undiscovered Motherwell! Looks like an early precursor to the ‘Spanish Elegies.’ And you say your mom got this from Steve Smigeley noted Lawndale Country collector as hush money to keep quiet an affair Smigeley’s mother had with your grandmother when they both were married? Sorry, not a happy thing to consider about your own family but it happens.“ 

Jane shrugged, “Well, Mom’s side, the Newton’s, were colorful people for their time. Not sure if anybody on the Newton side really cared about forbidden love or whatever but we got this painting out of the deal. Mom said get rid of it after we found it in the attic. And here’s that authorization from her.”

Gary nodded and shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Gotta tell ya, Jane. A story like that is usually a cover for a painting with poor provenance, origin story don’t you know. Somebody says they found it in the estate of their closeted gay uncle Timmy as a gift from an older paramour. But all this paper trail, legit gallery day logs and receipts. Even a photo of your grandma bouncing a Smigely tyke on her knee. Gotta do a little more due diligence but it certainly looks really good.”

Gary stroked his goatee again and cast Jane a side-eye look. “And how’s your brother doing? Travis, isn’t it?”

Jane caught her breath and replied, “Trent. Comme ci comme ça. Hanging on. He thinks hanging his head over a pan of steaming water helps but who knows? It’s harmless anyway.”

Gary nodded. “Good luck with all that. Okay, let’s talk simoleons. You wanted to sell it to me direct? Yeah, it’s bad business but I don’t mind telling you I think I have a buyer lined up. And Jane, consider I have buyers lined up for more of your Van Gogh homages or Pollock. I know you love you some Pollock.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jane told him in a tone worthy of her amiga’s deadpan.

Gary nodded and the two negotiated after he waved her into a chair across his desk. A quarter-hour later he said, “Final offer.” He slid a calculator over to Jane. Jane’s eyes widened, she smiled and stuck her hand out to shake. 

**THE PAY OFF or TRENT’S PROVENANCE**

Jane popped off the yellow plastic chair as soon as Dr. Gimble’s blue-scrubs clad form loped down the hallway. Daria followed after. Dr. Gimble smiled wearily and with sincerity at Jane, causing Jane to let out a breath from somewhere deeper than she thought she could hold one. 

“Doc, how is he? How did it go? Did you plug it all up?”

“That boy had about the most Swiss cheese atrial septal defect I ever did see,” Dr. Gimble said in an accent Daria had not heard since Highland. 

“But we got the holes occluded. Prolly longest operation I ever did but Trent’s blood oxygen levels are already up as expected, pert near normal. Look, you know the drill, he can go home tomorrow. Keep him off those damned cancer sticks of course. Rest for a couple days and drag him in to his GP next week again but this kind of thing heals up fast.”

Dr. Gimble smiled as Jane whoo-hooed, leapt up and punched at the ceiling. A nurse grimaced at her from the floor station but kept quiet. 

“And now the other shoe droppeth,” Gimble indicated a muscular young man in tie and button-down heading to them with a sheaf of papers. Gimble shook Jane’s hand, patted her arm then headed off himself.

“Miss Lane, I’m Dan Furbisher from accounting. We usually don’t do this so soon but you said you wanted an estimate? Well, here.” 

He thrust the papers into Jane’s hands and stepped back with a worried look. Jane had practiced this moment of acting with Daria and Quinn. She shuffled through the papers, made grunts of anguished surprise here and there then closed up the sheaf and sighed hard.

“Okay, we’ll get the money somehow.” 

Furbisher nodded. “Sure, too bad Lawndale’s not a charity hospital. Look, we do have some semi-official payment plans. Umm, maybe we could discuss it over dinner sometime?”

“What?” Jane asked minutes later in answer to her friend’s disgusted glare. “He’s kind of cute and I’ve never been to Chez Pierre.”

**EPILOGUE **

Daria considered the play of light through the crystal cup of red punch as she took it from Tom in her green satin elbow glove. The crowd hushed as the Lawndale art museum’s curator asked them all to move to the main gallery for the unveiling. For once Daria did not cringe as she accepted Tom’s offer to take her arm and guide her as if she needed it. And once again she was happy Tom did not sport a tuxedo like most of the rest of the swells, just a blue blazer and tan slacks. She was actually happy for Tom to guide her as she was still getting used to walking in the long green gown with slits to the knees which Quinn had picked out for her. 

The curator beamed and ushered her and Tom to the front where they stood next to Tom’s parents Kay and Angier Sloane. A scowling Elsie Sloane, looking like she wanted to play with her PSP, took up position next to Daria. Across the semicircle formed around the draped space on the wall, Daria saw her mom and dad smiling at them.

“Folks,” the curator began. “I cannot tell you how excited I am this evening. This piece will be one of, no the jewel in the crown of the Lawndale Art Center. We are so thrilled to have such marvelous benefactors lend it to us for showing in perpetuity. Who knew we could find a piece of this importance in our own backyard? We want to thank the anonymous person or persons who sold it here instead of Baltimore or New York. Your civic spirit is commendable whoever and wherever you are. Now I know you don’t need to hear me talk anymore.”

He paused to let a few people give out polite snickers.

“Without further ado I have the honor of asking Ms. Kay Sloane to do the unveiling.”

_ “And this is where the FBI or CIA or NSA or just the Lawndale fuzz comes crashing in,” _ Daria thought as flashbulbs popped and Kay Sloane approached the drape and a rope hanging down.  _ “Maybe they’ll let me use that rope to mercifully hang myself. Well, Mom’s here. She can take a crash course on defending minor children art fraudsters. God, I wish I had let Tom slip something strong into my punch.” _

Daria’s reverie was broken by the dramatic swoosh of fabric ascending and gasps of delight from the assembled art cognoscenti. John Law was not coming for her quite yet as far as she could tell with a quick glance to the exits. 

She found herself a moment later actually returning Tom’s sincere smile with a tiny one of her own as he drew her closer to the newly displayed Motherwell, whether from relief or happiness at Tom’s evident genuine pleasure. She smiled even wider as she scrutinized the little white card on the wall next to the big black and white painting.

** _“Robert Motherwell, American. 1915-1991. Untitled. Oil on canvas. Data painted: unknown. Gift in perpetuity of Kay and Angier Sloane.”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Where to put this in canon timeline? Soon after Life in the Past Lane I reckon and Jane and Nathan have reconciled to some extent. No support in canon but I have fleshed out characters and filled out Lawndale’s retail scene by casting Monique as the daughter of Jerry of the Stationary Jerry shop. ‘Monique’ is a French name so I am imagining ‘Jerry’ is short for ‘Gerard’ and their last name is ‘Defarge’. I thought Robert Motherwell’s paintings, particularly his ‘Spanish Elegies’, are somewhat close to Jane’s style and vibe. I also like to imagine Quinn as being a gifted handwriting forger. I don’t think Amanda Lane’s maiden name was ever mentioned; I chose ‘Newton’ pretty much randomly. And art forgery? Kids, don’t do this at home.


End file.
